


Blueprint

by deadcellredux



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Depression, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Meta, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Technology, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1659164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/pseuds/deadcellredux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Edgar's untimely death, Sabin attempts to shoulder a new responsibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blueprint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flonnebonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flonnebonne/gifts).



> Written for the following prompt! _Sabin - King Edgar is dead, for whatever reason, and Sabin has to sit on the throne. What would the poor guy do? How would he deal with his grief for his brother while also trying to learn to rule in his brother's place? Would he take on the responsibility, run away from it, or change it somehow? And how would he deal with the mechanical monstrosity that is Figaro castle? Do any of his friends come help him out? (or make things worse?) Doesn't have to be long--just a glimpse of poor King Sabin would be fine._
> 
> Sabin is one of those characters who I've always wanted to explore more in fic, and this was definitely a pleasure to write! I hope you like this, flonnebonne! :D

When they tell you that the cause of death was merely _a weak heart_ , you almost laugh. You nearly tell the medical examiners that _you’re quacks and phonies, all of you,_ but even after all these years your insecurities get the best of you. You aren’t booksmart; you never have been, and you’ve no place at all in telling the doctors that they’ve done something wrong. You’ve no place telling the coroner that your brother possessed one of the biggest, strongest hearts you’d ever known; no business informing the mortician that each and every gray hair on your brother’s head was earned with a hero’s valor before the age of thirty. 

One corner of your mind is alight with suspicion, and you wonder, in these desperate times, whether or not Edgar’s death is a result of foul play. Celes, however, with cold knowledge garnered from a darker past, assures you that there’s nothing about Edgar which indicates the after-effects of even the subtlest of poisons she’d been trained to use. She spares you the details. You don’t want to think about his corpse.

\+ + + + +

At the burial, you are surrounded by noise.

When compared with the world’s slowly dwindling population, you suppose that the turnout is relatively large, and letters of condolence have arrived by the hundred. It’s hard to hear your own thoughts over the chanting and wailing and strange muddled prayers surrounding you; not over the sound of sand hitting the wooden surface of the coffin, which, you decide, is the loudest sound of all.

For as much as you try and remain within your own head until its over, you can’t help but let the whispers of a concerned populace reach your ears, and rightly so--

“Your Highness,” the hushed voice of your late brother’s advisor reaches your ears, and the honorific makes your skin inexplicably crawl. “The people are asking about the castle. They know the mechanisms have failed; they want to know who’s going to fix it.”

“They can wait,” you whisper, harsher and louder than you thought you meant to. You couldn’t focus on finding answers even if you wanted to, not with all of this noise. Not with that awful sound of sand, scooped and dumped by shovels. Several feet to your left, you can hear Locke sobbing. Suddenly, you feel very, very ill. 

“But—“ the advisor continues, somewhat hesitant, but dogged— “representatives from Jidoor and Nikeah are here— they’re asking what is to be done about the trade routes, and if Figaro will still be able —”

You’re very thankful when the advisor is yanked away by Cyan, because something tells you it’d be in poor taste for the day of Edgar’s burial to also be remembered as the day you knocked some asshole’s teeth out. Cyan pulls the man several feet away from the edge of the line of onlookers-- this particular cluster consists mainly of your friends, so nobody blinks much of an eye at the scene-- and you follow, so as to hear Cyan’s quiet beration. 

“Dost thou dare to torment a man further in a time of grief? Leave him alone,” he says, hoarse voice just above a whisper. When Cyan lets go of the advisor’s arm, he _tosses_ it, as if it’s something disgusting that he needs to keep his distance from.

“Lord Cyan, surely you’re also concerned?”

The look that Cyan gives the advisor as his fist tightens around his sword hilt is enough to end the conversation, and the man walks quickly off in a flustered huff.

“Can I fire him?” you ask. “Is that a thing I can do, now?”

“If thou wishes it,” Cyan shrugs. “Thou art in charge now, after all.” He relaxes, and lets his hand fall from the hilt of his sword. He looks at you, concern in the creases at the corners of his eyes. “How art thou coming along?”

The question is redundant, but heartfelt. Something tightens your chest and your throat, and all you can do is shake your head as Cyan pats your shoulder with a warm, heavy hand. 

“Remember the train?” you blurt out, and Cyan blinks, seemingly taken aback for but a moment.

“I do,” his tone is solemn.

“I just hope he’s got a luxury suite in there,” you say, and you almost want to laugh, but you can’t, because you know if you start laughing, you’ll cry. “Hope he rides in style to wherever he’s going.”

Cyan wipes a sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and when he looks at you, his features soften considerably. 

“I am quite sure that is indeed the case,” he says, and rests a hand on your shoulder once more.

When you glance back over at the burial, it is just in time to see the final edge of the makeshift coffin disappear beneath the sand. You think of trees, and trains, and clear night skies, and feel suddenly, immeasurably thankful for Cyan’s presence.

\+ + + + +

For weeks, you cannot sleep. Nightmares plague you; you see the world break apart, over and over again, and each and every time, Edgar is nowhere to be found. Where in your memories he is there, besides you at the world’s end, in your sleep he is missing, an empty space filling you with uncanny, oppressive dread. Sometimes the dreams end with sand pouring from the sky, covering you, filling your eyes and mouth and nostrils until you wake, choking, clutching at your own throat for want of breath.

Sometimes, you dream that you are a child. You revisit memories, conversations from what seems now like a past and distant life.

_You are a sickly child, and Edgar hovers over the edge of your bed, wielding… something._

_Stay back, you say. You’ll get sick._

_Nah, Edgar says. I’m invincible. Check this out!_

_What is it?_

_It’s a double slingshot! I made it myself. It’s for chasing monsters away. You know, if they come for you. Since you’re stuck in bed._

_Thanks, but just you wait! One day I won’t need that stuff. One day I’ll be strong, and I’ll protect you instead!_

_I’ll believe it when I see it!_

_You see Edgar leaning closer, until he’s half on the bed next to you, one arm draped around your shoulders in a hug. He whispers in your ear._

_I hope you get better. I want to be able to play with you again. It’s no fun at all out there by myself._

You keep that infamous coin with you at all times. When it’s not in your pocket, it’s on your bed stand. When you wake from the dream, you pick it up, feel its weight in your palm. It’s smooth, now; both identical faces have long since been rubbed off by the worrying of your fingers. Once, this coin bought you your freedom. Lately, in your darkest, most shameful moments, an awful, awful part of you resents the fact that now you’ve lost that freedom entirely, forever.

\+ + + + + 

About a month after Edgar’s death, you finally find the vigor to focus on the work rapidly piling before you. Your friends-- both present and afar-- have been there for you, and though you’ve currently no way to truly express your gratitude, you decide that the best way to make it up to them is to pull yourself together.

Pull yourself together, and shave. It’s been a week since Terra visited with her small army of children to help you clean out Edgar’s quarters, and you still can’t forget the way her hand felt when she touched your face. It had been soft, and warm, and the fact that it was the first meaningful touch from another human that you could remember in far too long was enough to make your stomach drop.

“You should shave,” Terra had said, smiling in her way you’d grown accustomed to, eyes downcast and somewhat sad. To you, it had always registered as the smile of someone who had fought too many battles and lost one too many things dear to them. It’s a smile you recognize on the faces of many of your friends, nowadays; if you would look in the mirror more often, you’re sure you’d recognize it on yourself.

When Relm had caught wind of the fact that you missed the trees and intact mountains and the smell of flowers, she began to send you paintings, huge sketches of landscapes as they were before the end of the world. At first, you don’t have the heart to tell her that sometimes a reminder of what was lost is far, far worse than simply being _without_ , but now, you find her art uplifting, and you’ve even opened the curtains in your bedchambers to let some sunlight in.

Celes, as Captain of Figaro’s army, tells you that _you had better harden up soon and focus_ , because her men need strong direction. Of course, she says this in the softest way she possibly can, and you know that she’s taken matters into her own hands, leading troops on missions of reconnaissance, hunting, and gathering. Her weekly reports, sent to other major townships across the world, are filled with an uncharacteristic optimism and encouragement that you yourself could never muster-- not now. 

Cyan, as ruler of the world’s one other tiny kingdom, sends letters by carrier pigeon to let you know that all is currently good with trade routes; that even without the machinery of Figaro castle allowing travel beneath the few intact underground passages, things are under control. Cyan apologizes, often, in very flowery prose, for his lack of mechanical knowledge and inability to assist, despite the fact that he’s mostly conquered his fear of machinery.

Despite all of this, responsibility looms heavy on your mind, and you know that you must, eventually, take hold of several reins.

\+ + + + + 

“I can help you go through some of these,” Locke says, and nearly high-tails it from the late Edgar’s enormous workshop when you flash him a skeptical look. “No, seriously! I know a lot about this stuff. Well. Maybe not a lot, but enough to skim for what’s important.”

As if to demonstrate his skill at distinguishing Very Important Documents, Locke pulls open a creaking file drawer, and idly rifles through dusty edges of yellowed papers. He does little but summon a cloud of dust, and sneezes.

“Define ‘important’,” you say, and toss aside a shoddily-made manual entitled _Women! How to Woo Them, How to Snag Them, How to Keep Them in Your BED!_. It’s a first edition, one which Edgar no doubt had shipped from Nikeah some time ago, and you hopes to the fates that Edgar never _actually_ followed any of the “advice” you’ve just had the unfortunate experience of skimming through. “I’m not sure how much you could really help, here," you say. "Look at all of this. Who knows how many important documents are buried here amongst all of this…” you rifle through a dusty collection of pamphlets stuffed into a manual on mechanics, and pull at face at one which looks downright pornographic. “...junk.”

“Have you forgotten that I was a _bit_ of an insider to all this?” Locke suddenly sounds almost exasperated, and his tone causes your adrenaline to unexpectedly spike. “I was Edgar’s mole. He trusted me with a lot, you know. For years and years. You know how many times I risked my life for this kingdom?”

Locke sounds unexpectedly heated, and the conversation has begun to tread upon sensitive territory. 

“What exactly are you trying to say?” you ask, and Locke’s eyes widen a bit. You simply cross your arms and sit back, waiting.

“Listen, Sabin, all I’m saying is that you seem a little stressed.” Locke shakes his head, and by the sound of his voice, he’s calmed down a bit. “There’s just a lot happening, and some of us are concerned—“

“I know. I know. People are unhappy, there are a lot of questions, the castle is broken, nobody knows what to do.” You’re aware of the fact that your voice has risen and begun to shake as you speak, and you blink away the tears forming in your eyes. From what emotion they spring from exactly, you’re not entirely sure. “You think I’m not aware of that?”

Locke runs a hand back through his hair, looking at a loss for words. “I’m sorry,” he begins. “I--”

You interrupt before he can continue, and you swear you see his face go pale as his listens to your words. “You were so close with him,” you say, and now you don’t attempt to control the awkwardly audible tremor in your voice. “You were the one there with him, for all of the years I wasn’t. You knew him better than I did, at that point. I’m sure of it.”

You wipe tears from your eyes with shaking hands, and when you look at Locke, you find that he is silently doing the same.

“He never stopped thinking of you,” Locke says, his voice low and thick with emotion. “Not once.”

You heave a sigh and look down at the table before you, idly poking at loose papers, sketches, half-drawn blueprints for new mechanical contraptions that never had a chance to exist beyond the confines of Edgar’s imagination.

“I’m more concerned with these,” you say, purposefully changing the subject as you hold up one of the blueprints. “I’d like to save them. The rest of this… is probably useless. You can help me clear it out, I'm sure.”

Locke laughs a little, and though the sound is mirthless, it holds a note of relief. “No problem. Look at this space!” Locke exclaims, throwing up his hands. The basement workshop is, indeed, rather huge. “You could turn this into a pretty nice gym, no?”

You can’t help but laugh, in spite of yourself, and you know you’re not the only one with tears silently rolling down your cheeks.

\+ + + + +

Four months after Edgar’s death, you’ve managed to clear out the workshop into a manageable space. You’ve gotten ahold of things, for the most part, though you’d never have managed if it weren’t for the initial help of your friends. It’s still hard, and you still need a boost on occasion; sometimes, when Terra visits, she still has to remind you to shave.

You’ve re-claimed responsibility for the reports that Celes had so recently furnished; you’ve re-established a connection with the Moogle population, and through contact with Mog (and the efforts of a very dedicated interpreter), you’ve got Moogles mining for natural resources on the remainder of what used to be the northwest continent. You still bristle when people refer to you as _King_ or _Highness_ , but it doesn’t feel as much like a burden anymore. It feels like a purpose.

To your friends, you are still nothing more than Sabin, and that’s really all it takes to keep you going.

Setzer, upon hearing word of your desire to bring some of Edgar’s creations to life, has flown in for a visit on the world’s last remaining airship. He’s brought his small crew of engineers, and though the current state of the world leaves little resource for new technology, he’s also brought with him a shining optimism-- and a bit of a harmless gloat over the opportunity to view some of Edgar’s previously secret blueprints. You’ve granted him access to a select few which you think might be beneficial if brought to fruition, and he’s left you and Locke waiting in the workshop while he confers with his crew on their feasibility.

When Setzer finally bursts back into the workshop with a dramatic clap of his hands, you jolt awake, startled, and try to play off the fact that you were, indeed, dozing off in your chair. Sezter doesn’t seem to mind, however, even when you blatantly wipe away the trickle of drool that’s gathered on the side of your chin.

“I think we can do this,” Setzer announces, stroking his chin with one hand. Knowing Setzer, you’re almost positive that the gesture is purely for dramatic effect.

“Which one?” you ask, stretching back in your seat. 

“This,” Setzer holds up the blueprint in question, and from where you’re sitting, you can’t entirely make out the sketches and notations. 

“Does that thing have a propellor?” you ask. 

“Yes! It’s quite simple, really. Looks difficult, but I think my team can handle it. These turbines are identical to the ones used in the castle’s machinery. _Most_ of the parts are identical, actually. If you don’t mind us borrowing a few bits here and there…”

Setzer’s voice softens a bit when he looks up, and Locke shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. You hadn’t considering taking apart the castle machinery. At this point, there’s no hope for repairs of such magnitude, but in the months since Edgar’s death, you’ve let it lie as a last untouched testament to his brilliance.

“That’s like... dissecting a dead loved one,” you finally say, and it sounds infinitely more awful than it had in your head.

“Ah, well I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Setzer nervously responds. “Sometimes, however, such things are necessary for, ah, the betterment of… science…”

You groan in spite of yourself, pressing your palms to your face.

Locke’s chair screeches against the floor as he pushes it back to stand. “How about we stop talking about dissection and dead things and experimentation? What next? Apocalypse round two? Damn. You two are just delightful cherries atop a cake of misery, for sure.”

Setzer huffs, placing a hand on his hip. “I appreciate your metaphors, Locke, but we have to look at this objectively. Sabin, it’s your call. This is brilliance; Edgar musn’t have realized it at the time, of course not,” Setzer laughs, sadly, and seems to lose composure for just a second-- “but he’d be thrilled to know that this… idle sketch would one day be a hope for mankind. This vehicle could help, immeasurably, with Figarian reconnaissance, and if the Moogles can find a way to alchemize more resources…” he sighs. “Listen, if you don’t want me to touch the castle, I won’t, and I swear to you that I will not, will _never_ , judge that decision. That, I can swear to you."

There is silence. Locke sits back down, crossing his arms and muttering something to himself. 

You think for a moment, and quickly decide that you are sick of grief, and you are sick of sadness. You are sick of seeing your friends suffer, sick of seeing them cry, sick of seeing them struggle.

You are sick of feeling like it’s impossible to move on.

“Let me see the blueprint first,” you say. Inside, however, you already know the answer.


End file.
